


Clarity

by satellitemoments



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satellitemoments/pseuds/satellitemoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mary goes missing, John and Sherlock work together to try and find her again. In the meantime the depths of their own relationship become clearer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic so yeah, I just thought i'd give it a shot... I hope you enjoy and any feedback is appreciated!

John blinked his eyes open. He slowly felt his brain drag him back into semi-consciousness and his heart rate steady beneath his chest. He rubbed his forehead in frustration, how could it be that he could just not let go? He couldn’t count how many times he had returned to this scene in his dreams. Sherlock and his’ first case. He remembered how his subconscious had taken him back to those dreams of despair he had got from the war, remembered how he felt when he realised they would probably never leave. Then the words ‘the game is on’ echoed within him and suddenly it had all changed. No more nightmares, only sleep filled with the depth of relief when the thrill had ended with both of them safe, in the homely comforts of the walls of Baker Street. He could not understand, could not grasp, the need he seemed to have to put himself in danger. What was it that compelled him to such a life? Could he not be satisfied with the happiness of his wife and future child?

Admittedly, that in itself had some complications. Mary’s history was a complete mystery to him and he himself had willed it to be that way. He knew it had to be bleak. But for him the present was the most important, he had finally found himself in a place in life which he might have defined as normal – something he did not want to lose. He knew he loved Mary, and most importantly he knew he loved his child. He could not afford to jeopardize the happiness of either. All of us have chapters of our lives we’d rather keep unknown and for those who do not know them - he mused - ignorance is bliss. Though how was he meant to enjoy this state of bliss, if his mind kept dragging him back to the moments where he had been feeling an entirely different kind of bliss? How was he meant to forget the existence of Mary’s past, if he couldn’t even move on from his own? He sighed heavily, turning onto his back as he noticed that no light was yet shining through the curtains. Earlier than he thought then. Good, he’d try to get more sleep.

He stretched out his arm to rest upon – emptiness. Confused he opened one eye, and then the other, only to find he was alone. He listened intently, expecting to hear some sign of Mary using the bathroom or getting something from the kitchen. Silence. It was so silent that John became aware of the determined tick of his watch as each second past. He felt a discomfort grow within him, something wasn’t right. Within a fraction of a tick he was fully conscious.

\--

‘Did you miss me?’ Moriarty’s serpent voice repeated, his eyes seeming to gleam with the knowledge of the fear those words initiated and his smile confirming how he relished in it. The image froze and was contortioned slightly as it reversed itself. Sherlock’s finger forced down the play button for the umpteenth time that night. He hung onto every syllable, every slight tilt of the head, every blink, every shake of the screen, every minute pixel that formed to shape that face. What did it mean? He didn’t know and he didn’t like not knowing. His mind raked through every possibility there was, he could feel his frustration building each time he discarded one – how could this be? Moriarty is dead. He saw it himself, he shot himself. So what is this? Who is this? Why are they doing this? Was it maybe Moriarty after all? But that was not possible? Was it? Of what was Moriarty really capable? Not of evading death surely. But Sherlock had done. He knew if anyone was capable of matching him, then it was Moriarty.

  
He dug his shaking hands into his hair as he leant over the laptop staring into that sadistic expression. No, that had been different though. Sherlock had needed to convince the average person of his death. John, though exceeding in many other traits, was not intellectually gifted. Moriarty would have had to convince Sherlock. He who had been standing right in front of him, had even been shaking his hand at the time. Even now he could feel the soft skin of his palm as it enclosed itself under his own. The outlines of each dent, the feather-like touch of his fingers against his own, a minor callus on the edge of the middle one and the scraping of the nail from his little finger. The perfect stillness that had resided in the hand as a whole, as he lifted the other one to pull the trigger.

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut. No good. It was no good. For a month now he had been pouring over this image. Every second was spent trying to deduce something, anything, as to what it had meant, what was going to happen, why had nothing happened yet? What was this building up to? All these questions clotted up his mind and he had no answers to break them down with. When you have eliminated the impossible what remains, however improbable, must be the truth. That was just the problem with Moriarty though, Sherlock didn’t know what the impossible was.

  
He sprung from his chair and whisked up his violin. Clarity. That’s what he needed. He let the violin pick up his confliction of thoughts through his hands as they formed a tune to pierce the silent night. His gaze automatically flew out through the window. First to the street which was dotted with lights from streetlamps or the occasional car driving by. People were few. Those that were hurried to their destinations, chased by the nipping cold and late hour. Boring. His gaze darted upwards and rested upon the opposing flats. Curtains being drawn, or left open, with nothing but the flickering glow of a television to be seen. So simple, so placid and predictable. He let his gaze drift higher to encounter the intensity of a clear night sky. He felt his melody slow down as his thoughts lingered. The many stars which gazed back at him forced him to admit there was little predictability in such a sight. A recollection of his perturbed him slightly. Astronomy was not really his strong point. He had been obliged to admit that it had been a mistake on his part not to be more informed, that such information could potentially be useful on a case. This was not however, what had stirred him in that moment. Instead, he remembered the night of a case. The blind banker case to be precise. Walking through the hidden parts of London with John. That night, the stars had appeared just the same. A certain fondness Sherlock rarely allowed himself to feel crept upon him as the memory grew. The night, the case, the company… everything had been somehow perfect. Each detail coerced him into believing that in that moment, that time, he had been what one might define as… happy. Of course, that was irrelevant now. He felt himself sink a little inside and tried to ignore it by speeding up the melody. Internally he gave a cynical chuckle. Sentiment - it truly is a chemical defect found in the losing side.

His reverie was shattered instantaneously by the sound of the door being torn open and the intrusion of a biting breeze which found its way into the apartment only to be followed by a dishevelled John. His face red from having fought himself through the cutting night, his hair and clothing unkempt and his chest heaving for air under that which was burdening him.

  
‘Sher- Sher’, he panted and Sherlock had thrown his violin down and crossed the room within an instant.

  
‘John, John, what is it, what’s happened?’ He felt the pain in his own voice at all the possible scenarios he was picturing.

  
‘Mary, it’s Mary – she’s gone’.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already wrote a second chapter to this cause I've just really enjoyed writing it so far! So let the fun continue...

John sipped at his tea. Not really tasting it so much as feeling the heat sting his tongue. He was still in his kitchen, not bothering to sit down and make himself comfortable. He hadn’t slept for two days. Two days it had been since Mary had vanished. Two days and absolutely nothing had happened. His grip on his mug tightened as his anger built. Anger at himself for allowing this to happen. How could he, a trained soldier who was meant to be aware of his surroundings at all times, not have noticed someone kidnap his wife who had been sleeping right next to him? Or at least that was what he assumed had happened. There was of course the possibility that Mary had left of her own accord. But John refused to let that be the case, the very idea of it made him want throw his mug out of the window to see whom he could hit first. Not that the idea of her being kidnapped should be preferable, but there was a part of him that felt mildly reassured that if that was the case, Mary knew how to take care of herself. If she had voluntarily left, in the middle of the night, without a single trace as to why or where she was going – for some reason that made him more nervous. He pushed the entire thought to the back of his mind.

He had to focus on that which was concrete, that which he did know, or he would go insane in the process of trying to diagnose the ambiguous. Of course, what he did know was little. Sherlock had immediately followed him back to their house in order to do what he did best. Deduce. Find evidence. A lead, as to where they could look first. Lestrade had been contacted, search teams sent out and all forms of transport contacted to keep an eye out for her. But nothing. Sherlock couldn’t find any signs of forced entry. If anyone had come in, they had had a key. All of her possessions had been left behind, the only thing missing was the pyjama she had gone to bed in. Therefore the obvious deduction being a kidnapping. But Mary was clearly no amateur. How could she let herself be kidnapped without any sign of a struggle? John recalled the apologetic look Sherlock had given him when his many deductions had brought them no further in actually finding a clue as to where she might be. John’s disappointment had been clear, he had blatantly refused to believe that they had nothing to work with. The majority of his anger was concentrated on himself though. At his complete uselessness in the entire situation. Not only for not having prevented her disappearance but also for not being able to help in the slightest in finding her again.

His thoughts were interrupted by the subtle vibrations of his phone on the counter. He flipped it over to find a text from Sherlock.

‘Think I might have found something. Come to Baker Street asap. – SH’

 

\--

‘Benzodiazepine’ Sherlock murmured as he held up some tests results he’d carried out at St. Barts earlier that day.

John’s eyes flicked between him and the results. ‘The sedative’, he replied incredulously, ‘where on earth did you find that?’

‘Traces of it on some fibers from your downstairs carpet.’

‘So what, Mary was sedated? That’s how she was taken without a struggle?’

‘Possibly. Though that would raise many other questions such as, why was it downstairs? Did Mary go downstairs first? What for? And if she was sedated there, why is there no evidence of another person? How did the sedative end up on the carpet? If it was the result of a struggle, why are there no other signs of it?’

John listened to Sherlock go on, listing the endless complications and mysteries there were to what could have possibly happened. He found himself drifting off from what he was saying, weary from all the different scenarios playing through his mind. Instead he looked around the apartment. Everything was as it was when he left it. Even his chair was still back in its place from when Sherlock had moved it. A gentle fire crackling in the stove ensured the room remained cosy (he assumed that it had been arranged by Mrs. Hudson) and the table was strewn with random papers as well as Sherlock’s open laptop. It was from one of those papers that Sherlock was now reading and John attempted to listen as he settled himself into the largest couch on the other side of the room. There was a comfort to Baker Street he couldn’t deny. It had a certain aesthetic to it which he felt relaxing him. His lack of sleep suddenly pulling down on his mind. He could still hear Sherlock, not his words, but his tone. It was strangely soothing and John had to admit that he had missed this. Sleep, Baker Street, and Sherlock…

Sherlock put the paper gently down as he noticed John’s eyes fall shut. He was worn through, it was evident that he hadn’t slept for more than 48 hours and frankly Sherlock had never seen him look quite so drawn. It pained him to see John like this. But there was another feeling Sherlock was trying to deny and a pang of guilt hit him when he knew that he couldn’t. It was pleasure. Pleasure at having John here in Baker Street with him again, lying on the couch as if he had never left and drifting off whilst Sherlock rambled endless deductions his way. If only it was not under these circumstances. It had been so long since they had last spoken, let alone met up. Sherlock had been fully occupied with the possible return of Moriarty and John’s time had been entirely consumed by the task of rebuilding his marriage. There had been many moments when Sherlock had almost craved John’s company; someone to talk to about his many theories, someone who would praise his deductions, someone to make sure he was ok… before John he’d never thought of such trivial desires, now he realised how essential they’d become to him.

He observed John now. Judging by the gradual relaxation of his muscles and the slow decrease of his heart rate, he was just reaching stage 2 of Non-REM sleep. A few minutes more and he would sink into the much needed deep stage. He also couldn’t help but notice that John had inconveniently placed himself further from the fire than its radiating warmth could reach. He reached a decision almost instantaneously, fetching his own duvet from his room he carefully place it over John so as to ensure his feet and hands were fully covered. Having completed this he grabbed his laptop, fell into his own chair and returned to the gleaming eyes of Moriarty’s message.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter but hope it's still enjoyable :)

‘Sherlock! Oh dear, how have you managed to make a mess of this? Come on, let me do it.’

John heard Mrs Hudson hushed voice protest through the walls. He opened his eyes to find himself staring at the dusky brown of the leather couch. He felt the effects of a good night’s rest almost immediately. His mind felt regenerated and his body had lost the stiffness built up over the past few days. He slowly turned onto his back, noticing the duvet brush over him as he did so. It felt almost brand new, somehow soft but crisp and fresh but warming. He inhaled the familiar scent of Baker Street it seemed to harbour that made him feel so at home.

He heard Sherlock huff as he swept into the sitting room and flung himself into his chair. He watched him as he lifted his violin and started plucking absentmindedly at the strings. It was no particular tune, Sherlock was just bored, yet John enjoyed the sound of it all the same.

‘Good sleep?’ his deep voice asked rhetorically after a while, as his eyes lifted from the violin and head tilted in John’s direction.

‘Very,’ he responded, ‘How long have I been out? Have you found anything ne-’

‘John! Here’s a cuppa and some biscuits. Sherlock attempted it but you should have seen the mess. He was going to use the same mug in which he had only just been mixing some sort of saliva concoctor for one of his ridiculous experiments. He thought “rinsing it out should do” – honestly! Not to mention the fact that he put far too much milk in. Now you just rest dear and enjoy this,’ Mrs Hudson interrupted him with the welcome beverage.

He smiled internally at the thought of Sherlock not being able to make a proper cup of tea. Some genius.

‘It was perfectly clean I can assure you.’ Sherlock stated bluntly whilst sending an annoyed look in Mrs Hudson’s direction.

‘And the milk?’ John keenly provoked him.

Sherlock looked irritated before going on, ‘Tea making is not a priority when it comes to the vast amount of knowledge I acquire. Its significance is minor in comparison.’

‘Only whilst someone else keeps making it for you.’

Sherlock caught John’s eye at that comment. He expected him to make some snarky remark in response but it didn’t come. Instead he saw Sherlock’s eyes dim slightly as if they were distracted by a meaningful thought, and then a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

John steadied himself as he sat up on the couch, oblivious to the duvet falling to the floor in the process. Only when Mrs Hudson picked it up, folding it before carrying it to Sherlock’s bedroom did he realise where it had actually come from. No wonder it had felt new. John couldn’t actually remember ever having seen Sherlock sleep in his bed (apart from the time Irene Adler had drugged him but that was involuntarily). He couldn’t help but also observe though that the scent he had found so comforting from Baker Street had in particular come from Sherlock’s room.

‘Oh you two! It is nice to have you back here John. I assume you’ll be staying for a bit? Now I’m not your housekeeper but I am making some lasagne later and I’ll bring enough for both of you up when it’s done. Get some of that strength of yours back.’

Mrs Hudson’s voice brought John pack to the present when he hadn’t even noticed his thoughts drift off. ‘Hmm, oh yes please, thank you Mrs Hudson.’

‘Oh look at you, I do feel sorry for you John, and poor Mary. I’m sure she will turn up eventually though and she won’t thank you for having starved yourself in the meantime.’

She gave him one last sympathetic look before disappearing out of the door. He heard her steps get quieter as she headed down the stairs and eventually the gentle click of her door closing.

Mary! John suddenly reminded himself. He couldn’t believe his thoughts had actually been completely elsewhere. He turned to Sherlock.

‘Nothing new,’ He responded to John’s unspoken question, ‘I have my homeless network out there keeping an eye out for her too. It is indeed getting peculiar that she has not been seen by anyone.’

‘What can we do?’ John asked, his desperateness growing.

‘I’ve been thinking. There isn’t much we know about Mary before, well…’ Sherlock’s look indicated he was trying to phrase his point carefully, ‘before she decided to no longer be an assassin and settle down with you.’

Real subtle, John thought.

‘I think we need to do some digging. I know you vowed not to find out about her past, but it seems to be the only place we haven’t yet looked.’

John sat in silence. Contemplating that which Sherlock had suggested. He realised that either way he would be breaking a promise. He could search for her past, discover anything he could in order to find out where she might be. Or he could ignore it, and in doing so possibly put her in danger, despite having sworn to protect her in his marriage vows. He realised that in this situation, ignorance was not bliss, it was simply ignorant.

‘Where do we start?’


	4. Chapter 4

‘St. James Square!’ Sherlock called to the cab driver as they both hurriedly climbed in.

He had a theory as to where they could possibly find something on Mary’s past. He presumed it was not going to be easy. Her very aim had been to erase it entirely, and he doubted that asking Lestrade, or even Mycroft, to do a background check on her would bring up anything concrete. No, this required a different approach. They had to take advantage of one key aspect they did know, one that would hopefully provide them with a mere window into the truth.

John watched as Sherlock’s eyes drifted out of the window. To anyone else it would seem that he was merely taking in the scenery. Following the many cars, buses and bicycles that were heading to their usual destinations and observing the many buildings which remained as they had for hundreds of years. But John could see a glazing to them which told him that Sherlock was currently more focused on his mind’s eye. It was a look he had grown accustomed to on their many cases and one he had learned to admire. He knew he would never tire of the brilliance that was Sherlock’s intellect.

‘You want to know where we are going,’ Sherlock interrupted his thoughts as he glimpsed in John’s direction.

‘Hmm, well yeah now that you mention it, a clue would be nice.’ He replied whilst looking away rather quickly, embarrassed of having been caught staring.

‘The London Library.’ Sherlock answered curtly as he took his black leather gloves from his pocket and started pulling them on.

‘What? Why? You don’t expect to find anything on Mary there surely?’

‘Perhaps not on Mary directly, no,’ he paused and turned now to fully face John, ‘but there is bound to be plenty connected to Magnussen.’

A brief grin played on Sherlock’s lips as he made this suggestion, seemingly thrilled with his own genius at the idea. John on the other hand could manage no response other than too blink slightly astounded at the mention of the name.

He went on, ‘We know that Magnussen knew about her past. Everything that had been on that USB she’d given to you was also in his mind palace.’

‘Yes “Mind Palace” Sherlock, that’s somewhat inaccessible to us and he’s hardly going to have documented it in the national library.’ John snapped back. He knew he was probably missing something but his irritation grew alone from the fact that Sherlock was cutting his explanation so short.

‘How did Magnussen discover Mary and her past? What is the most likely source of his information?’

Sherlock watched as a light went on in John’s eyes. It never did take long, he felt proud to be able to mentally flatter John with that compliment.

‘His work. His papers…’

‘Exactly! At some point in time, something must have been reported in his news channel that is even remotely connected to Mary which he discovered. Something that gave him cause to look deeper into the subject for his own personal gain. We need to find whatever that might be.’

The cab halted just outside the library and Sherlock leapt out, going ahead impatiently as if the articles would fade if he wasn’t quick enough. John counted his money out before paying the driver and chasing after him. The library itself was impressive. Infinite rows of shelves, stacked with an endless variety of books combining different shades and sizes to form a labyrinth of stories. Sherlock however, did not seem lost amongst the brilliance surrounding them. He quickly made his way through several rows of shelves before finding two staircases he swept down and then turned a few more corners until they reached a large desk covered in multiple folders. The amount of people surrounding them had reduced the further they went and John noticed that the area in which they now found themselves was completely undisturbed. In the corner stood a computer which Sherlock immediately approached, entering some details so that the logging on screen appeared before them. John turned to the folders and began flipping them open to find catalogued newspaper articles from the past forty years. He looked at Sherlock questionably.

‘I called in a favour. Lady who works here got herself into some trouble when her husband was arrested for fraud. I helped prove that she really had been unaware of it – though simultaneously proving how unbelievably naïve some people can be.’ He explained as he joined John at the desk, ‘She has had each folder put out for us categorised under newspaper and century. I reckoned going by Mary’s age and a few years added on just in case, forty years back should be enough.’

Hours went by as they sifted their way through the material. Sherlock at the computer, John at the folders. He wasn’t even exactly sure as to what he was meant to be looking for. It could be anything - a name, a phrase, a story, a photo, something that appeared familiar enough to establish a connection. The sheer volume of articles John found himself taking in over the time span was overwhelming and soon the rumbling sound of his stomach disturbed the silence which had set over them - announcing that dinner had been postponed long enough now.

‘Sorry’ he murmured as he opened a folder for the hundredth time that day.

‘Here,’ Sherlock commented as he tugged an apple as well as a nutri-grain bar free from his coat pockets and tossed them in John’s direction.

John gawked at him feeling somewhat dumbfounded. ‘Where on earth did these come from?’

‘Mrs Hudson’s flat. I grabbed them on the way out assuming this would take longer and you would need some sort of sustenance.’ He replied whilst keeping his eyes on the pc screen as he continuously scrolled down.

‘That was uhm, thoughtful… thank you.’ He didn’t quite know what to say. It was one of those moments where Sherlock had once again completely managed to surprise him. Not that John thought he was completely incapable of feelings. Despite what he might try to show to the rest of the world, John knew better. But in day to day life that part of him was often barricaded by the façade he built up around his work. There were few who were fortunate enough to know the true depths of Sherlock’s personality and John found himself glowing internally that he was one of them. He realised how absurd it was that such a simple gesture from a person could raise his spirits tenfold.

‘You should really have something too Sherlock.’ He observed, ‘The apple, or the bar?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous John, it’s hardly enough to fill one person. You wouldn’t be doing yourself any favours and you need it far more than I do.’ Sherlock reasoned as he continued to glare at the screen.

‘I’m not trying to do myself a favour, and if we were to look closely at both of our constitutions I’m pretty sure yours would be the one in more need of-’

‘arghhh!’ Sherlock exclaimed as he slammed his finger onto the mouse closing the screen he’d had open, ‘that’s the last article on here I could find which could possibly be relevant and nothing! Not a single connection, it’s maddening!’

‘Sherlock! We’re in a library,’ John reminded him, ‘keep it down. There are plenty more folders here to go through, you’re welcome to come and help here anytime.’

Sherlock made a grimace as he joined John at the desk and flung a folder open to reveal the many articles within. The food discussion seemed to have gone entirely out of the window so John decided to nibble on the nutri-grain bar to mildly satisfy his stomach whilst leaving the apple in the event that (by some miracle) Sherlock changed his mind. He was beginning to also feel the effects of time on his mind as it became a little hazy and he couldn’t help but start to become amused at the cheesy adverts older newspapers used to print.

‘Shame that the abbreviation for “Most Amazing Raspberry Yoghurts” is not some sort of glaringly obvious connection to Mary’ he muttered to himself mockingly.

Silence ensued his comment for a few minutes, all that could be heard was the turn of a page each time an article proved unsuccessful.

‘Oh!’ Sherlock blurted out as he began rustling through his folders, ‘Of course, I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me before! John your ability to stimulate the genius in others is truly fantastic!’

‘Thanks, I think. What?’

‘It didn’t mean much to me before considering the ship had been in India it appeared to be referring to the city there but now - ’ Sherlock tugged an article free from its folder and leant over John as he placed it before him. ‘Look - it’s an abbreviation!’

John skimmed over the article hoping to find the particular detail Sherlock was referring to. It was on a ship which had sunk in 1985 just off the Indian coast leaving no survivors. He read it over several times as he felt his frustration building at not spotting the apparent clue.

‘I don’t know alright, it seems a pretty devastating event but how it is meant to connect to Mary I just don’t see. There’s nothing in the text, no bloody abbreviation or anything, to indicate she’s involved.’

‘Not the text John,’ Sherlock protested as he leant over further to point out where on the paper he should be looking and John felt himself having to try to ignore the tingling feeling on his skin that Sherlock’s close proximity initiated. ‘The picture!’

John looked closely, he hadn’t even been fully aware of the photo accompanying the article it was so small. It displayed the ship as it set sail, it was large, seemingly modern for that time period. There were few people on the deck, none of which were recognisable and a word which was barely legible on the back (probably the name of the ship) which spelt… – oh. John couldn’t believe it.

‘A.G.R.A’ Sherlock voiced his final thought out loud.

‘Brilliant,’ John spoke breathlessly, completely amazed by how Sherlock had managed to see that. ‘Oh my goodness Sherlock, you really are, absolutely incredible!’

And Sherlock knew that as John turned to face him, he was not able to conceal the elation in his expression which he felt at having heard those words of praise from him once more.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the next chapter is going to take a little longer cause Uni starts next week. I'm hoping to get it done by next weekend though :)


	5. Chapter 5

'Sherlock,’ John mumbled with his heavy head resting on his arm, ‘what time is it?’

‘Late.’ was the only response he got.

Mustering up all of his physical strength, John rose from the table and headed into the kitchen deciding it was time they both had something proper to eat. Mrs Hudson’s promised lasagne stood on the top shelf of their fridge (as far away as possible from the frozen fingers and eyeballs a shelf below). He took it out and started prepping it to be heated up, he realised as he did so that suddenly it was ‘their’ refrigerator again. When had that happened? It had just seemed the natural way of things that from the library he had returned with Sherlock to Baker Street. He began wondering whether he was actually being unreasonable in doing so. He had no claim to it anymore and was worried it gave the appearance that he only came at his own convenience. Sherlock had not objected though. He hadn’t commented on it at all and John felt that if anyone was going to be straightforward with him should there be a problem, it was Sherlock. He was just closing the microwave door as he heard Sherlock mutter,

‘Carlisle, Ashworth, Bates….’

‘What?’ He asked - only to be completely ignored. He coughed several times as if to clear his throat and repeated, ‘Sherlock, what?’

‘Gregory, Johnson,’ He paused a moment before continuing, ‘Ashworth…’

‘Sherlock!’

At that Sherlock looked up, his expression telling that he was confused as to why John had felt it necessary to shout.

‘Why the list of names? Are they important in that they are relevant to Mary?’ John asked as he calmed himself down.

Sherlock reacted by leaving the table to jump onto his chair so that he was crouching on its back with his feet on the cushion and his face resting on his hands. It was a ridiculous position which did the chair no favours and John briefly smiled to himself as he appreciated that only Sherlock would ever opt to sit like that.

‘Those names are from a list I’ve found of all of the passengers who died on that sunken ship,’ he followed up. ‘One of them must at least indirectly be associated with Mary. Given that the ship was named “A.G.R.A” it would most likely be the owner of it. Now fortunately out of all the passengers aboard there was only one who’s initial was an “A” and that is a Captain Ashworth.’

‘Right, that’s good isn’t it? I mean that’s a massive lead for us. We need to find out more about him.’

‘Well yes and no,’ He hesitated, ‘Yes it is an excellent lead, getting the right information from it should bring us a good deal further.’

‘And no?’

‘No it’s not good because it’s going to mean calling in a favour from Mycroft.’

\--

John turned onto his back for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Nights were definitely the worst. It felt like such a waste of time. All he could do was lie there and pretend to get some rest whilst not actually achieving anything. He had attempted to convince himself that until Mycroft got back to them with any information there was nothing he actually could do. Instead he ought to get some sleep so that he could be ready for whatever was yet to come. But somehow that wasn’t quite working out for him.

A gentle thump followed by a tapping sound from downstairs caused him to raise his head a little. He knew it was probably Sherlock being completely oblivious as to what time it is but he saw it as a valid excuse to get up all the same. He slid into his slippers before slowly making his way down the steps. The living room appeared to be empty but sure enough, as he made his way further in, his eyes discovered Sherlock hovering by the kitchen counter. The detective hadn’t noticed him yet and John found himself using the opportunity to observe him. Though he had changed into his pyjamas and rich blue dressing gown, there was nothing else about him that suggested he had slept. His curls, though slightly tousled, did not give the impression of having seen a pillow and his eyes looked as alert as ever. Only around them was a certain heaviness, as if something was resisting that usually keen expression. He seemed to be reading from some packet which he held in one hand but it was his other hand which made John uneasy. It was holding onto the counter, or rather grasping onto the counter, and Sherlock’s entire body seemed to be leaning on it. As if it was all that was keeping him up.

‘Sherlock?’ He wasn’t sure why but he whispered the name so as to break the silence only minimally.

Sherlock gave a start at the sound and John watched as his features promptly became more composed before turning his head to face him.

‘John. Did I wake you? Sorry I didn’t mean to, was merely making myself a quick drink.’

John moved closer to find the packet he had been holding was instant coffee.

‘Coffee? This late?’ he questioned, ‘Besides, you usually drink tea.’

‘Ah yes well I felt I needed something a little stronger just now and - ’

‘Stronger? Sherlock it’s 4am! The only strong thing you need just now is something to knock you out.’ He could tell however, that Sherlock was not going to offer any further explanation so John took the packet from him and began filling the kettle.

‘John you really don’t need to…’ he murmured in response.

‘Yes I do,’ he answered as he looked sceptically at the mug Sherlock was going to use, ‘Is this clean?’

Sherlock half nodded dubiously.

‘Right.’ John concluded as he placed it in the dishwasher before grabbing a clean one from the top cupboard. He flipped the kettle on before turning around and in doing so, noticed Sherlock’s laptop screen behind him. He blinked twice before being able to take it in properly.

‘But that’s…’ He looked at Sherlock questionably, ‘Moriarty’s message. Sherlock, what are you doing?’

He shrugged and looked away slightly. ‘I was just, thinking.’

‘About Moriarty? At four in the morning?’ It dawned on him suddenly how obtuse he had been in thinking that whole matter had been dropped. Though it had been more than a month since, and nothing had yet followed, of course Sherlock was not going to let it go. He had been so distracted by his own problems that he hadn’t even taken the time to consider it.

‘Oh my god,’ John rubbed his hand against his head in frustration, ‘you’ve been obsessing over this all this time haven’t you? Sherlock! How can you let something like this affect you this much? I mean, bloody hell, when was the last time you actually slept?’

‘Sleep is irrelevant. I need to use every second available to me in deducing something from that message. It has to mean something John! Can’t you see that?’

‘Sleep is not irrelevant Sherlock!’ He felt his voice rising whilst simultaneously trying to keep it down for Mrs Hudson’s sake. ‘The only thing I can see right now is that you are physically draining yourself over something which may or may not be important. And don’t even try telling me that’s not the case because despite what you might think, I am not a complete idiot and I can observe your health - no matter how bloody good at acting you might be!’

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something but then quickly shut it again. He stood a little awkwardly in the entrance to the kitchen, uncertain as to whether he should retreat or stay to attempt explaining himself. A click came from the kettle as it announced the water was now ready yet John remained with his eyes relentlessly on Sherlock. A few minutes past as they remained in this state of limbo before John eventually broke it.

‘Fine.’ Was all he said before he began making his way past Sherlock and headed towards the door. Just as he reached it and felt the disappointment seeping into him, one word from behind halted everything.

‘John.’

For some reason he felt himself have to steady his breathing as he heard his name in that single utterance. He didn’t turn around. He realised it might be easier for Sherlock to be honest if he felt less confronted.

‘I… I don’t think you’re a complete idiot,’ he stumbled the words together. ‘I mean, it is clear your intellectual capacity is beneath mine. But as far as people go, in particular the people I know and can find in the least bit interesting – you… you are the most enlightening of them all.’

His words fell uneasy in the silence which John prolonged for fear of saying something wrong. He did not know how to answer. The phrase ‘thank you’ would not nearly cover the overwhelming gratefulness he felt in that moment. Sherlock however, seemed to take his muteness as a demand for further explanations.

‘I can’t… I can’t sleep. At least not properly because…’ He hesitated, and John felt a pang of guilt within him as he realised how he’d never heard Sherlock’s voice sound quite so unsure of itself.

‘Because of Moriarty’s message. It uhm, it keeps replaying in my mind. Every detail, his manic face and those simple four words of his. Every time I close my eyes that is all I see. I can’t let him beat me. I have to get behind this, whatever it means. Whether he is dead or alive, I have to know. There is no other way John.’

John let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. He let his hand fall from the door handle and moved to face Sherlock. He gently smiled, not in a mocking or triumphant way but rather to communicate an understanding. Every word he had spoken had struck a chord in John. He knew how it was to have something occupy his mind to the extent that it hindered his sleep. In fact it had been Sherlock who had saved him from that. It occurred to him now that the thrill of the chase, the danger - the game. That was not what he could not get over. Sure, it had been a necessary distraction from his past. Something new to occupy his mind with. But he felt himself admitting that the real necessity, that which had actually revived him, was the key player of the game. John realised that he wanted to save Sherlock from himself now, just as he had done for him.

‘There is another way.’ John spoke as he strode towards the laptop and closed it.

‘Now I’m not much help intellectually to someone such as yourself,’ he commented somewhat sarcastically before continuing. ‘But I am going to help. In any way I can Sherlock. At least you won’t have to deal with this alone. If you want, that is…’

Sherlock nodded carefully. He reminded John of an unsure child, not quite believing what was suddenly happening. His eyes wavered slightly as they fixed themselves on John’s.

‘John. Thank you, but,’ he faltered slightly. ‘What about Mary? Finding her first is a priority and we really can’t juggle the two cases.’

‘Well, we’re just going to have to, aren’t we?’ Was John’s only solution. ‘Look on the bright side, you’re not going to have to deal with being bored for a while.’


	6. Chapter 6

John awoke to the muffled sound of a violin playing Mozart from the room below. He listened to it attentively, allowing his mind to drift as his ears followed the tune. He was not particularly a classical music enthusiast but he had to admit that whenever Sherlock played something seriously, he always enjoyed it. Music has that special ability, regardless of genre, to stir thoughts and feelings. Something which in such moments he found fascinating.

He got up just as the piece had ended, to avoid postponing it even later by the temptation of finishing another tune, and checked his phone. Nothing. Fine, he decided. He’d have a shower, shave and get dressed for another day of foolish hope.

He came down the stairs thirty minutes later ready for the day, but stopped halfway as he realised the absence of the violin playing and in its place low voices alternating short sentences in a snappish manner. He hovered at the leant door.

‘You will have to show him this Sherlock.’ He recognised Mycroft’s subtle, yet commanding voice instantly.

‘Yes thank you Mycroft, I had in fact worked that out for myself.’ Sherlock hissed back at him, ‘Though I was unaware that I’d suddenly become the best person to deliver bad news. I distinctly remember you always telling me how untactful I am when it comes to sentiment.’

‘You are. Though I think we both know that when it comes to John, the situation is somewhat…shall we say - different?’

‘What exactly is that supposed to mean?’ Sherlock’s voice became increasingly irritated in correlation to the defensiveness rising in his mood.

‘Show me what?’ John stood in the doorway, interrupting them before Mycroft could form the insinuating expression on his face into words.

An awkwardness followed his appearance as two of the world’s greatest geniuses felt stumped at having been overheard.

‘Well, I should probably leave,’ Mycroft stated as he headed boldly for the door. ‘This is a matter in which I can contribute little more whilst there are greater political matters currently going on, which I’m afraid will require a good deal of my attention. Good day.’

John was going to block his way but decided there was little point. Mycroft had communicated whatever knowledge he knew to Sherlock and he was right in believing that John would rather hear it from him. Sherlock in contrast looked as if he would rather brick Mycroft in, than let him get away so easily.

‘Well, Sherlock?’ John confronted him before he could go after Mycroft or avoid the subject entirely.

He fumbled a bit with some papers on the desk in an attempt to diffuse the tension as he spoke, ‘Uhm, John, I’m really not sure if I’m the right person to te-’

‘Sherlock stop it, you’re the only person who can tell me! What the bloody hell is it?’ he replied as he snatched the papers from Sherlock’s hands and slammed them onto the other end of the table.

‘Ok, yes, I should just show you. It probably has a very logical explanation which we are as of yet unaware of and therefore are reading too much into it. Mycroft can be so overly-dramatic with these things before really regarding all of the facts.’ Sherlock sat down in front of his laptop and concentrated on the screen. There was something in his voice which made John’s concern grow with every second. It sounded as if Sherlock was trying to convince him more than actually believing what he was saying.

‘Is it something he has found out about Mary’s past?’ John let the dreaded question he’d been holding in, hang in the air like a confronted phobia.

‘No,’ Sherlock hesitated. ‘We’re still waiting for an update on that. Turns out the Indian government isn’t so keen on revealing information on individuals from its past.’

‘Well for goodness sake what is it then?’ John sighed with exasperation, allowing a glimmer of relief to light in him that perhaps it really wasn’t as distressing news as he’d been preparing himself for.

‘It’s some CCTV footage Mycroft found.’ Sherlock replied as turned the laptop screen in John’s direction.

‘CCTV footage, what?’ He felt his curiosity rising at the possibilities of what was going on.

‘I think it’s better if you just watch.’ Sherlock instructed as his finger hit the play button.

John felt every muscle in his body tense as he realised what he was observing. Within seconds he went through a line of clashing emotions; shock, relief, realisation, disappointment, betrayal, anger and bitterness. He allowed himself to be overwhelmed by each, felt the rushing velocity of his heart rate and the tremor in his hand as it balled into a fist. It was as if all hope and trust within him had shattered only to leave remnants of humiliation and failure. He inhaled strongly, trying to find something to steady his nerves. Turning his head to face Sherlock he expected to have to confront a stream of demands telling him to be logical and calm down, but instead he was taken aback to find Sherlock watching him in silence.

His blue-green eyes were steady but delicate as they reflected an uneasiness at having watched John’s reaction. His head was tilted, but not rested, on his hand. It seemed to just play with his chin uncertainly, as if he didn’t know where to put it and his lips parted a little - unable to find the words they thought John needed to hear.

John returned his attention to the laptop screen. The footage blinked a few times as it returned to the beginning. To the sight which made his heart feel like a blackboard being scratched by his own nails. Mary. Mary looking directly into the camera. Looking, smiling, or rather smirking. Her combed back hair was dyed brunette but there was no mistaking the face which antagonised him in that moment. She stared into the camera with a sadistic amusement which she maintained as she slowly stepped back before turning away completely. Her every movement was cold, confrontational and calculated. He felt a bile taste rise in the back of his throat.

‘John.’ Sherlock spoke gently as he reached for the laptop, letting his hand brush over John’s in the process hoping it would display his want to be of comfort. John did not recoil at the touch. But nor could he return any appreciation of it. He feared any kind of movement would result in his anger conquering the rest of his senses to the extent that he might grasp Sherlock’s hand so tightly until it would go cold.

‘I’m a bloody idiot.’ Was all he could say as he shook his head in disbelief at himself. An unstable laughter escaped him between intervals of gritting his teeth.

‘In that case so am I.’ Sherlock commented as he forced John to look directly at him.

‘What? Sherlock don’t be absurd,’ John shook it off. ‘I know you’re only trying to think of something to say that might ease my mind but I think it’s best if we don’t go telling ourselves lies which we both know aren’t true only to justify my own damn stupidity.’

‘John you’re the one who’s being absurd. Alone the idea that I would ever believe something that I know not to be true for the sake of somebody else is ridiculous. Don’t flatter yourself to such an extent.’

John’s head snapped up, ‘Oh shut up you complete dick. Mycroft is right you really are incapable of showing any form of sentiment.’

Sherlock paused, he swallowed tensely trying to prevent any hurt from showing in his voice as he continued. ‘I am only laying out the facts for you John. Going by the strong suggestion that this appearance of Mary’s is intentional and proves her to not have been honest. To in fact have left wilfully, and to be provoking you with this now. Then, I also made a mistake. She also deceived me. I trusted her with you when I shouldn’t have. So if that makes you a “bloody idiot” then the only conclusion is that I am also one.’

John felt regret hit him instantly for what he had said. Sherlock was nowhere near incapable. He simply dealt with sentiment differently. But it happened to be a method which fitted John’s needs perfectly. Instead of consoling him with empty words or directing an attack at Mary, Sherlock had simply shared the blame in a manner which had John compelled to believe him. He’d done this despite it meaning that he was admitting to having made a mistake. Though he’d said it calmly, John knew how much it must have taken for Sherlock to say out loud that he is anything but a genius.

Sherlock observed John as he processed his explanation. He was looking down with his arms rested on his legs, his thumbs in a never ending wrestling match as they imitated his nerves. Slowly he noticed his features begin to relax slightly as he lifted an arm and closed the laptop with resignation. John shook his head marginally as he looked back up at Sherlock. A quick smile flashed on his face. Not of happiness, Sherlock had not expected that much. It was a smile of appreciation.

It lifted his low expression for only a moment, yet it made Sherlock’s heart miss a quick beat in the process.


	7. Chapter 7

‘I’ll be back in ten!’ John shouted loud enough that Sherlock could hear from the bathroom before closing the front door behind him.

Sherlock sighed as he stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed another with which he started rubbing through his wet mess of curls. He knew John was not thrilled at having to go to the shops this early just because they had no milk or bread to start the day with. Admittedly, Sherlock had noticed last night and could have gone himself, but had decided that the time out might actually do John good. Not to mention the fact that alone the thought of having to deal with the mundane interactions it would require of him, was enough to make his patience wear thin.

He thought back over the events which had happened in such a short space of time. It had just been over a week since Mary had gone missing and the amount of disappointments John had been through since were overwhelming. They only mentioned her occasionally after the morning the CCTV footage had been found. Sherlock had decided he would not raise the topic with John unless Mycroft came back with anything curious about her past. When she was discussed it would come from John on a moment’s whim, a thought which he could no longer keep to himself and would throw at Sherlock hoping for some kind of explanation. The predominant one being the baby. Whether Mary would still have and keep it, if that was the case, would he ever see it? And Sherlock knew that the most dreaded question in John’s mind was if it was even his. Unfortunately this was a situation in which Sherlock rarely found himself – where he was really just as clueless as anybody else. He wanted to be of help to John but simultaneously was still shocked himself at Mary’s betrayal. He’d known that she had lied. Had known that there were secrets but had believed that they were in the past. He should have seen however, that the lie went deeper than that which she had admitted to. He was chastising himself daily for not having observed something sooner and couldn’t help wondering if all that time away from London, chasing Moriarty’s web, had somehow weakened his observation skills. He shook his head furiously, sending any remaining water droplets flying before tossing the towel aside.

He looked in the mirror, turning slightly so that he could get a glimpse at his back. He had felt the slight soreness of his scars whilst cleansing himself, as the heat of the shower had drummed down on them, reminding him of the pain he had endured. He traced his hand over the parts which he could reach. Memories of being beaten with a cold, steel pipe as well as a stinging whip, flashed in his mind as he felt the hard irregular skin where stitches had been necessary. Various members of Moriarty’s organisation had exercised their brutality and vengeance on him for the loss of their leader. Of course, the question still remained as to how lost he really was. Even if Moriarty was gone, clearly someone out there still followed in his name. Despite the fact that Sherlock had been certain he’d eradicated them all. He had a theory. One which had been simmering in the back of his mind for a few days now, but he’d been holding off letting it reach boiling point for lack of any concrete evidence. He was still missing something, a piece to the puzzle of events which would bring some clarity into the various deductions he’d made.

His thoughts returned to John as he headed into his bedroom, pulling his suit for the day from his closet and placing it on his bed. He often found himself remembering certain moments from the past week, moments which stirred something within him which he recognised as sentiment. He was still not able to deduce what exactly it stemmed from. Even when he returned to those scenes with the upmost detail. He recalled the gentle smile on John’s face as he acknowledged Sherlock’s method of trying to console him after Mary’s betrayal. That one look had sent such a rush of relief and affection through Sherlock. The knowledge that he had been able to lessen John’s pain for even a second and that he had welcomed his words. Sherlock felt that anyone else would have asked him to leave the room. Would have left him entirely, being the last person they’d want to have around when facing tough times. But not John. He had stayed.

John’s footsteps heading up the stairs caused Sherlock to snap to attention, hastily covering his back with his shirt before swiftly buttoning it up and returning to the rest of his clothing.

‘They had no semi-skinned milk for some reason so I just bought full fat instead. I figured in your case it can’t do much harm.’ John called to him from the kitchen, followed by the rustling sound of plastic bags being dumped on the counter.

‘Fine.’ He replied, ignoring the remark aimed at his diet.

He emerged from his bedroom fully dressed, only the remaining dampness of his hair contradicted the otherwise pristine appearance, and went in search of the tea he hoped would be ready.

‘Here.’ John placed the mug in front of him then turned to attend to his own. ‘Now you really should have some kind of breakfast. I bought toast and cereal so help yourself. I’m going to go have a much needed shower and shave.’

‘What, now? Can’t it wait? I was about to head to the morgue. See if Molly had anything interesting to look at. I thought both of us could do with an interesting distraction.’

John couldn’t help but let the humour show in his voice as he spoke, ‘Sherlock firstly, going to the morgue is not my idea of a good distraction. Examining dead people and their body parts is not a hobby of mine. And secondly, it really can’t wait, I need to wake up properly and stop feeling so bloody groggy.’

John ignored the disappointment Sherlock let clearly show on his face in protest, as he moved past him. Just as he reached the bathroom door however, he called back jokingly, ‘Besides, I thought you preferred your doctors clean shaven.’

Leaving Sherlock to choke on his tea from the embarrassment he felt in hearing John repeat those words back to him. He suddenly heard how absurd it sounded and though John had meant it in humour, it was a joke Sherlock could only blush rather than laugh at. He decided to put the entire scenario out of his mind immediately by focusing on something else. Grabbing his tea he flipped his laptop back open and opened the tab he had permanently minimised with Moriarty’s message. He deliberated on the thought which occurred to him as he studied each feature once more.

 

‘I said, have you come up with anything?’ He heard John’s annoyed voice break through his thoughts from behind him.

‘What? Oh you’re already finished.’

‘I have been for the past 15 minutes now. Honestly Sherlock, you really are the very epitome of someone being “lost in thought” on a constant basis.’

‘Hardly, John. I do not get _lost_ in thoughts. If anything I _find_ in thought.’

‘Yes but Sherlock that’s not the point of the sayi- oh never mind.’ He continued, ‘Have you thought of anything which might help with the Moriarty message?’

Sherlock looked up at John with a gleam in his eyes and an intrigued smile donning his lips, before returning his attention to the screen.

‘What if the message was not meant to indicate that something was going to happen?’

‘What do you mean?’ John felt his interest peak at Sherlock’s suggestion.

‘What if, it was meant to communicate that something _had_ happened?’ He mused with an enlightened expression, ‘And that communication had actually been broadcasted in such a manner, to disguise that it had been intended for one specific person who would understand it.’

‘But how would you then find out what had happened? And if that is the case, for who was it meant?’

‘No idea.’ Sherlock abruptly replied, not caring to divulge more for fear of being wrong.

He gulped the last drop of his tea down as he got up and headed for the kitchen. The toast bread John had bought was still lying accusingly on the counter. For the sake of both of them, he grabbed a slice and shoved it in the toaster. In doing so he didn’t fail to notice the pleased look which spread across John’s face, from the corner of his eye.

‘So you didn’t go to the morgue then?’

‘No. I’ve had a better idea.’ Sherlock responded as he grabbed his phone and began typing a quick message -

‘Any open cases you’d have for me to look at? Need a distraction. – SH’.

He’d originally told Lestrade to minimise cases since the ‘return’ of Moriarty. His time had to be spent efficiently and that meant not wasting it on the insignificantly boring criminals the world offered all too regularly. But this time, he thought, for John at least it would hopefully be a welcome diversion.

His phone vibrated less than a minute later.

‘Yes, please. Thank you. Come to Scotland Yard? – Lestrade’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this is really fun, I just get to sort of pour any ideas I have into it ^^ anyway, thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

‘Bloody hell Sherlock,’ John protested as soon as they’d left the doors of New Scotland Yard behind them. He attempted to keep his voice low so as to avoid any attention from passer-by’s but his bewilderment at what had just happened was inescapable.

‘I think that went rather well.’ Sherlock commented as he slung his navy scarf around his neck and flipped his coat collar up so that the look was complete. He continued walking at such a speed that John felt himself having to take hastier strides to catch up before replying.

‘Well? You just pissed off a woman, whom you hadn’t met before yesterday, so much that she held a knife to your neck!’

‘How was I supposed to know she would react so sensitively? I simply told her the truth.’

‘You told her that she was the very example of bitterness in humanity and that which it can do to people.’

‘Well, I’m not wrong am I?’ He raised his hands slightly to gesture his own innocence on the matter. ‘She was in fact indirectly responsible for the murder of not only her sister, but also the lover and now even the ruined life of the husband.’

‘It was the husband who committed the murders Sherlock. Regardless as to how interfering Sara Cushing might have been, she was not the one who ended up cutting off her sister’s ears.’

‘True. But it was her who messed with the mentality of the husband - making him capable of doing it. Not to mention the fact that her hysteric reaction to me with the knife, makes it clear she ought to be behind bars.’

‘Yeah coming back to that actually, can you try to avoid that from happening in the future?’ John recalled the scene in his head forcing a wave of terror to run through him at the possibilities of how it could have ended. ‘I know you think death is beyond you by now but unfortunately, it isn’t. And I’d rather not have to go through that again.’

His tone was light-hearted but Sherlock felt the weight of those words press on him, unable to think of a suitable reply. A cab appeared just in that moment and he hailed it down instantly, hoping his silence would be forgotten.

‘Sherlock?’ John asked expectantly as they watched the cab approach and halt before them.

‘I was never in any real danger John. Though I might not have a soldier’s training, I was perfectly capable of disarming her and you know that.’

‘This time.’ he pointed out as they climbed in.      

‘It’s not really preventable in my line of work John, I think we’ve both worked that one out by now.’

‘No but you tend to be the idiot who can unnecessarily, yet willingly, walk into those situations – we’ve worked that one out by now too.’

Sherlock made a slightly affronted look in John’s direction before turning away with an unavoidable grin. John was the only person who could call him an idiot and actually make it seem somehow logical. He'd begun to view it as the reverse of an insult in these circumstances.

‘Baker Street, please.’ John called to the driver as he pulled the door shut.

\--

‘I cannot believe I am actually agreeing to play this with you again.’ John stated as he freed the Cluedo board from the wall and fetched the box he had saved from the cupboard.

It had been a month since Mary’s disappearance and nothing more had been heard since the CCTV footage incident. Mycroft still had not reported anything back either, and Sherlock keenly observed it as another indication of his brother’s increasing slowness. John stayed clear of the subject entirely. The extent to which it had actually gone from his mind Sherlock doubted. Lestrade though was more than willing to assist by throwing cases at them almost daily and the time in which he wasn’t, would be spent on the Moriarty complication. However, the intensity of the last case meant that even Sherlock agreed, on having returned to Baker Street, that it might be an acceptable idea to take a momentary break.

‘You keep telling me it’s not actually possible for the victim to have done it. So, try to see this as an opportunity to prove me wrong.’ Sherlock remarked cynically.

He joined John at the table and watched as he removed the contents from the box.

‘Right, you can be Miss Scarlet.’ John placed the figurine in front of Sherlock whilst trying to suppress the amusement it gave him.

‘What, why?’

‘Cause it’s funny.’ Was the simple reply, ‘You chose the game, I get to choose the players.’

‘John don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Don’t look so bloody offended. It’s a good choice really, you look quite similar - curly dark hair and everything.’

Sherlock’s response was to glare with an expression which implied he was more than unimpressed, leaving John to relentlessly give way to laughter as he placed the Colonel Mustard figurine on his own position.

‘Oh you’re more than willing to satisfy your own ego though, flattering yourself with the soldier.’

‘It’s just a character Sherlock,’ He justified. ‘Besides, it is the most accurate choice.’

‘No it isn’t, you never reached the rank of a colonel.’ He pointed out confidently, ‘– _Captain_ John Watson.’

John caught his eye somewhat confrontationally at that, but something about the look which interchanged between them made Sherlock withdraw his nervously and return his focus to the game. Fortunately in that moment a knock on the door tore through the tension, followed by a cheery Mrs Hudson’s entry.

‘Ooh-ooh!’ she sang through the flat, ‘You two enjoying yourselves? That lovely assistant of Mycroft’s just dropped this off for you. Not bad news I hope.’

She placed a sandy coloured A4 envelope on the table which had ‘John (/Sherlock)’ in Mycroft’s hurried, yet still flawless, handwriting on the front. Sherlock watched John expecting him to make a grab for it. Yet he remained still, only regarding it with his eyes as he spoke steadily.

‘Thank you Mrs. Hudson.’

‘Anytime dears. I best leave you to it. Plenty for me to do still.’ She gave one last glowing smile and then left, quietly closing the door behind her.

Sherlock’s gaze flicked between the envelope and its key recipient. He thought about his words carefully before breaking the silence with his low voice.

‘John…’


	9. Chapter 9

‘Don’t.’ John stopped him before Sherlock could speak any further.

He rose from his chair, picked up the envelope without even regarding it properly and stabbed it by its corner to the wall above the fireplace where the Cluedo board had previously been executed. Sherlock froze a little with astonishment. He had not been sure what John’s feelings on the subject were anymore but this he could not have predicted. He came back to himself quickly and moved to take the envelope down again.

‘Sherlock, I’m warning you, leave it.’ John spoke sternly. His eyebrows had lowered over the commanding eyes which reflected his words as they looked up at Sherlock. His every feature emphasised an unyielding tone as he narrowed his lips into a straight line and tilted his head slightly in the envelope’s direction. It made Sherlock hesitate for a moment yet his obstinate nature won over as he stepped towards the fireplace. His progression was short however, as John placed himself directly in front like an indestructible barricade.

‘John,’ Sherlock attempted to keep an assured tone. ‘I realise this must be hard for you but we have to know what Mycroft has found out about her. Don’t you see? This could give us so many answers. Surely you want to know too.’

‘I don’t know what I want.’ He lowered his eyes and licked his lips slightly. ‘All I know is that right now, I do not want to read that. It’s not going to change anything tonight anymore except my mood. I’ll let it upset me tomorrow – alright?’

‘Running away from the truth is never the right thing to do John.’ He was not sure how harsh his words sounded as he voiced them slowly, ‘It’s not like you either.’

‘Really?’ John gave a sarcastic huff of laughter as he took those words in, ‘Because I’m beginning to think I’ve done a hell of a lot of it over the past few years.’

He dared himself to return his eyes to Sherlock in that instant, who looked a little taken aback with what John could only classify as confusion. He wished he could read the thoughts of those intriguing eyes as they tried to look for some reply. Instead the silence remained as they fixed themselves questioningly onto John’s. He could feel himself swallow a lump in his throat as he thought to have observed Sherlock’s pupils dilate. He cursed the inability to control his nervous heart rate as he went on to explain himself.

‘I just mean,’ He let out a heavy breath as he slowly managed to put some words into a coherent sentence. ‘Whatever is in that envelope will remind me of Mary. Of that entire phase of my life which just seems like one endless deception. Now… and for this past month, I have been able to put that aside a little and return to that which I know and trust and…’

His words failed him again as his uncertainty of how to continue returned, unsure himself as to what he was actually thinking - let alone saying. Sherlock still remained silent. His lips were parted slightly as if he wanted to speak but feared he might be reading the situation wrongly. They both became increasingly aware of each other’s proximity and an unexplainable reluctance to break it.

‘I -’ Sherlock’s voice was rough and he coughed slightly in an attempt to calm it. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean John.’

John couldn’t help but wonder what he meant himself. What was he even saying? For some reason he had just opened a box of thoughts and emotions he hadn’t even realised he’d been storing within himself. That was not entirely true though. He had always known there were unresolved tensions between him and Sherlock. Ones which most people who knew them would tease with insinuating comments or looks. But that had all gone when he married Mary.

He thought of all the times he returned back to those moments. From the first meal at Angelo’s, to the Moriarty confrontation at the pool, to their time in Dartmoor, to the utter emptiness he had felt at watching Sherlock fall. He would recall the sheer mix of passionate feelings he went through as that annoyingly perfect face appeared before him again in that restaurant. He had never experienced such a feeling of joy at being able to be completely pissed off with someone. To have Sherlock there in front of him, to be able to glare at him and not a grave. He knew that he had already forgiven him in that moment. He wasn’t dead, he’d given him his miracle and that was all he cared about. Then he would go back to the stag night, remembering how comfortable it had felt just being with Sherlock and how _right_. Every now and then he would even dare himself to wonder how it might have ended if there hadn’t been a client. Unsure as to whether it would have resulted similarly or changed everything. He would recall Sherlock’s speech and wondered whether, or why, he was suppressing regret at the thought of it. Not to mention the inexplicable defensiveness he’d feel around both Irene and Janine. He remembered internally scolding himself for being grateful to Moriarty. Grateful that his message had turned that plane around. That he would not be left alone.

Of course he had not been alone, he’d had Mary and their unborn child. So why had he felt that way? Since Sherlock’s return John was certain that not another person in the world could mess with his mind as much as he unknowingly did. He wondered cautiously whether, if there was a remote possibility, he did the same to Sherlock. Sometimes words or looks would imply it. To a large extent in fact. If it had been anyone else, John would be fairly confident. But he wasn’t even sure of his own standing on the matter, how could he presume Sherlock would be? Yet John could not help thinking that despite Sherlock’s genius - in this field he lacked a familiarity which meant he was incapable, or uncertain, of deducing both himself and John.

‘I meant,’ He mustered his courage together once more. He couldn’t believe the position he was finding himself in right now. Having to somehow put all those thoughts which came crashing down on him into a logical context, whilst being practically confronted by Sherlock silently standing not even half a metre away. ‘I mean -’

He never finished his sentence. The interfering ringing of Sherlock’s phone cut off his intentions. The first few tones it made Sherlock ignored. Whether that was deliberate or if he had been equally engrossed so as to actually not be aware of it – John wasn’t sure. Either was astounding to him. But as it persisted to the extent that one could almost hear the impatience of the caller on the other end, he answered it.

‘Mycroft.’ Sherlock spun around and slowly walked away whilst running an exasperated hand through his thick hair. His voice was hoarse and somehow less alert than usual, which assumedly was also clear to Mycroft judging from Sherlock’s next response.

‘I’m fine, why on earth wouldn’t I be? What do you want? I’m guessing you didn’t just interferingly call me to enquire as to my health.’

John watched silently as they conversed in hushed tones. He gulped as he considered his options as to what to do now. He felt a wave of tiredness hit him, mental exhaustion from that which had occurred in the last half hour. Feeling certain of his decision, despite the inevitable regret he knew would follow it. He slipped away upstairs with a relieved, yet occupied, mind.

Sherlock hung up as soon as he could be certain that John had settled into his room. He treaded carefully as he grabbed his coat, tied his scarf around his neck and left warily, rushing down the steps and through the door of 221B.


	10. Chapter 10

It did not take long for John to realise Sherlock had gone. Many nights of being used to hearing at least once, the agitation of his flatmate downstairs never sleeping, had meant he’d grown accustomed to it. The absence of which he noticed only about two hours later, lying in the silence of his own broken sleep. Within moments he was calling Sherlock’s name repeatedly as he went from room to room, feeling his optimism drain with every step. He knew exactly what had made Sherlock disappear, and cursed himself for having been so distracted at the time to have not thought about the situation properly. Climbing the steps two at a time, he rushed to his room and grabbed his phone from the bedside table. He could feel his hectic breathing as he punched a number in with his impatient fingers. His heart rate raced ahead of the dial tone as it leisurely drew out the time.

Please, he thought. Please say that he sleeps as inconsistently as his stupid brother.

‘John?’ Mycroft’s voice echoed through the receiver, unaware as to the wave of relief it sent through its recipient.

‘Mycroft!’ He could not stop himself from yelling as he went on, ‘Where the hell has Sherlock gone? Don’t even try telling me you don’t know because I know you do. It has something to do with that blasted envelope and your phone call.’

‘If you’re so sure why don’t you check the envelope John? It has all you need to know about Mary’s past. Sherlock has simply gone to verify it as we speak.’

‘My concern right now is not Mary’s past, Mycroft!’ He could hear the anger in his tone, silently hoping it would not come across as too rude. It had not been his intention in calling, yet Mycroft’s calmness was grating on his patience to the extent that he couldn’t avoid it.

‘Then what is your concern, John?’

‘Sherlock!’ he bellowed down the phone, forgetting the time of night and his neighbours. He felt every inch of his emotions orbit the name as he spoke and let his head fall into his hand with the weight of it. He didn’t know why he felt so troubled. What kind of danger he thought Sherlock would be facing. All he knew was that the idea of Mary being involved, created an uneasiness in him which he could not ignore.

‘Well,’ Mycroft spoke confidently from the other end in a manner which suggested it was the answer he had been awaiting. ‘I suppose I do have a rough idea as to where he will be.’

\---

Sherlock felt his head pang with unbearable pain as he slowly dragged himself back into consciousness. He opened his eyes only to instantly clasp them shut again, overwhelmed by the blinding light of the room he was in. He tried to let his other senses determine his surroundings instead. The scent of overly sweet fragrance diffusers as well as cleaning detergent, infiltrated his nose. He could feel his back leaning on a heavy kind of fabric hanging behind him, most probably a curtain. He tried to reach for it, yet his hands were held back by some form of strong wire. Tied together, he observed – how unoriginal. His ears picked up a distant voice, presumably from the room next to him. It spoke calmly, and gave the occasional laugh. He then noticed with irritation that both his jacket and shoes had been removed. A soft carpet cushioned the sole of his feet and a gentle blow of air from a nearby air-con sent a chill through his upper body. Presumably the hotel still then. It would seem they weren’t yet able to drag him somewhere else. A quick attempt at sight confirmed his conclusion. He was sat in the corner of a high class hotel room, with cream coloured arm chairs, flooring and curtains. The rest of the furniture was made of a mahogany wood, including a massive double bed which had a silk, white bedspread folded perfectly on it. The typical appearances which were used to display wealth.

A sigh escaped him as he deliberated what his next move ought to be. He tried to recollect when it must have been that he was knocked out. The time between leaving Baker Street and arriving at the Langham hotel was a hazy fog in his mind through which he could only see occasional clearances. He could remember charming the lady at reception into revealing the room number in which persons fitting the description he was looking for, were staying. He thought to have also the memory of getting into the lift, anxiously pressing the desired floor number… yet anything past that failed him.

He let his thoughts come to an abrupt halt, as the knob on the door to the room turned and clicked, before being slowly opened. His face maintained a calm composure, yet internally he felt an undeniable twist of feelings as he awaited the appearance of the one he knew was on the other side. Mary. She carried a poised smile on her face as she strode over to him. He observed the slight heel of her shoe denting the carpet where she stepped and the brushing sounds of her trouser fabric. What he perceived most clearly however, was her flattened stomach beneath the loose shirt she was wearing. No longer pregnant then. He felt a gulp in his throat as his thoughts immediately turned to John and the sorrow it might cause him.

‘Mary.’

‘Sherlock.’ She returned his greeting passively as she turned one of the chairs slightly in his direction before sitting down and crossing her legs. She folded her hands over one another and slanted her head a little. ‘Well go on then. I’m assuming you have a lot to either tell, or ask me.’

Sherlock raised his eyes slightly in her direction, not able to do so fully due to the pervasive light which still burnt his retina. He swallowed slightly before speaking, ‘Where is my coat?’

She let out a controlled laughter, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear as she eventually returned to her previously firm expression. ‘Yeah sorry about that. The shoes were to prevent a speedy unwanted escape of yours. The coat,’ she shrugged, ‘that was just funny’.

He rolled his eyes as he tried to sit up properly, yet the awkward binding of his hands prevented it.

‘So… do tell. I assume you managed to figure something out about me, since you’re here.’

He grunted slightly before asking, ‘Where should I start? You are already quite aware as to how much I know if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Oh, you’re referring to the bugging device in your flat. Perhaps that was somewhat sneaky of me, but necessary. When did you notice it was there?’

‘The CCTV footage.’

She raised an eyebrow a little, doubtful as to how he was going to continue.

‘Before then you had been in hiding successfully. You’d managed to change your identity entirely and avoid all search efforts to find you. So why appear intentionally on CCTV footage, especially in such a provocative manner.’ He explained, feeling a certain security return to his voice. ‘Simple. You wanted to put us off the search. John and I had come too close to discovering something you wanted to keep unknown. The best way to do that was to make it clear to John, you did not want to be found.’

Mary leant back on her chair, gently nodding to that which he was saying whilst trying to follow his logic.

He continued, ‘Well it’s obvious that the ‘something’ which should remain unknown was your past. So how would you know that we had come close to finding something out from it? We had not told anyone else aside from Mycroft. Therefore you must have been observing us somehow. You’d heard us mention our findings and panicked. It took me less than a few minutes to find the device behind the mirror.’

‘Fair enough.’ She replied. ‘It was the name. Ashworth - no one was ever supposed to know that name.’

‘Your real surname. Captain Ashworth was your father. He named the ship after you and your mother – Alice Georgiana Richardson-Ashworth.’

‘Magnussen,’ She spoke his name with a sense of disgust as she continued, ‘had worked it out from his papers. No one else would ever have supposed it but he took in each detail so closely. Always on the lookout for a means to blackmail.’

‘He knew about your father. His supposed death. His meetings with a certain J.M. and the appearance of the Andaman Island’s treasure.’

‘You are well informed.’ She smiled artificially, ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Your father didn’t really die on that ship did he?’ Sherlock decided to cut to the chase. ‘His body was never found, presumed to be taken by the current of the ocean. But he was running away.’

Mary did not agree or disagree. She merely watched him as he spoke, her expression turning sour.

‘He wanted to run away with the Andaman Island’s treasure. He knew where it was, but instead of having to share it with his associate, he wanted it all for himself and so faked his death.’ He let the words pour from him now. Enjoying the feeling of knowing he was right. The information Mycroft had given him was the final piece to his deductions. ‘His intention was to get back to England by the 30th September 1985, where he would stay the night in this hotel and collect you from London. You were only a child at the time. Together you would flee the country once having retrieved the treasure.’

She stood up and began pacing the floor anxiously. Having to hear her own story returned back to her so coldly in such detail, tore on her nerves. She stopped at the bed and slowly placed herself onto the edge of it. ‘Not bad Sherlock. How did you manage to find that all out?’

‘There’s more,’ he spoke, delighted at the reaction he was provoking. ‘Unfortunately for you, your father underestimated his associate. James Moriarty, Senior. He still wanted the treasure and believed you could be of use. So he went ahead to England, then kidnapped you before your father could intervene. He brought you up as a trained killer. Paid for everything you would ever need in life, in exchange for you always being in his service and eventually, his son’s. In the meantime Captain Ashworth had to go into hiding, for fear of not only his own but also your life - should Moriarty ever find out what he had done.’

He watched closely as her breathing became a little quicker, her eyes flicking between him and the door. He knew he was pulling on her every nerve in mentioning the name Moriarty.

He decided to conclude what he knew, with the most important factor. ‘The message.’

‘What?’

‘It was intended for you.’

He could tell from the narrowing of her eyes and the pursing of her lips that he was correct.

‘Moriarty is dead. Which meant Capt. Ashworth no longer had to be.’ He spoke his next words slowly, “Did you miss me?” – You have no idea how long those words had plagued me until I realised their true meaning. It aired on the 30th September of this year. The same day you were meant to meet your father here twenty-nine years ago.’

‘Enough!’ She commanded, breaking the pattern of their previously subtle voices.

Sherlock had no intention of holding back. ‘So why John? Why did you have to get close to him?’

‘I said, enough, Sherlock.’ She rose from the bed, pulling a handgun free from underneath her blazer and gradually walking towards him. ‘As you said yourself, I am a trained killer and trust me, this time I won’t miss.’

‘If that is the case, you would have killed me by now’ He stated assuredly. ‘Why just knock me out when you had the opportunity to finish the job earlier.’

She grinned smugly. Now standing directly in front of him, she bent down to meet his gaze with her own. ‘Not such a genius after all. Where do you think my dad is now then?’

He couldn’t conceal the dwindling of his assuredness as her implied meaning hit him. He looked back at her, not speaking aloud that which he feared the most.

‘He’s gone to sort out John. It would seem he noticed your absence pretty quickly and decided to run after you. It is touching, yet somehow…unfortunate, what you two would do for each other.’

Every nerve in Sherlock’s body tensed. The freshness of the air-con seemed suddenly harsher, like a deathly breeze teasing him, and the wire binding his hands tightened, cutting into the flesh of his palm. He forgot all that he had meant to say. His mind could now only focus on one thought, one person.


	11. Chapter 11

‘Shit!’ Mary cursed as she hit the red button of her phone for the fifth time and threw it onto the bed. It had been at least an hour since her father had left to go after John and she had heard nothing since. She returned her glare to Sherlock once more, permanently pointing her handgun at him where he was now knelt on the floor, hands still tied behind his back.

‘Afraid he might have gone away without you again?’ Sherlock sneered at her, not trying to hide the venom in his voice. In truth it was all he could do so as to avoid thinking of John. A sickness rose within him at the thought of what fate might be awaiting him. If anything happened to John… Sherlock hated himself more than he ever had done. It would be his fault. He had followed the lead which had brought him to Mary. He thought he’d been able to keep John out of it but of course that brave idiot had come after him.

‘You think you’re so clever don’t you Sherlock.’ She turned to him as she stepped closer.

‘As a matter of fact, I do actua-’

‘Shut it.’ She commanded calmly as she placed the barrel of the gun against his forehead. ‘When my dad gets here with John – dead or alive, and he will. I will not hesitate for a second in pulling this trigger.’

‘You really are showing a whole new side to yourself.’ Sherlock replied, his deep voice dragging his words out from the pain he felt in acknowledging the truth. He gulped before continuing. He knew what he was about to say would make little difference, nevertheless it was worth an attempt.

‘You do realise you wouldn’t get away with it. Mycroft knows I’m here, that John came after me, they would eventually track you down. You’d be better off just running now whilst you have the chance.’

‘And risk you both coming after us? No thanks, I’ll take my chances. You know too much.’

‘Mycroft knows everything I do.’

‘He knows the facts maybe, but not the story. You’re the one with deductions Sherlock, I’ve learnt that much. By the time your brother will have realised the significance of the various details he has, we’ll be long gone.’

‘I’m flattered.’ His tone was dry as he spoke, ‘But, and I can’t believe I’m the one who has to say this, I think you’re mistakenly underestimating my brother’s intelligence.’

‘You can stop it Sherlock.’ She stepped a few steps back this time, as if she was trying to find a position from which she could observe him best. ‘Nothing you say in here, is going to protect your little John out there.’

‘Really, just don’t refer to him like that.’ He shook his head somewhat with distaste, as if he were telling off a child.

‘What, as ‘little’ or as ‘yours?’ She raised an eyebrow, as she watched him blink twice in response. ‘Let’s be honest. It must have really killed you. Having to watch him be happy with me. You tried to do the right thing of course, appeared to be pleased for us both. But any moron could have seen how in love with him you were, or should I say – you are.’

Sherlock inhaled sharply. He had done all he could in his mind to never label it with that word. It was as if, in doing so, he could deny it as being just that. Only in his wedding speech had he been able to say it. But then he had convinced even himself in that moment, it was only meant in terms of friendship. To have someone else define it so bluntly, unleashed an anxiety in him which sent his heart pumping till he could hear it in his chest.

It took every inch of his self-control to maintain a steady expression. He looked her directly in the eye, shrugging his shoulders slightly as he kept his voice passive. ‘I don’t do sentiment. I stick to the principle that it is a chemical defect found on the losing side and though, yes, I might be more partial to John than I am to others. I think you’ll find that is as far as my emotional spectrum reaches.’

‘But we both know that’s not quite true.’

Sherlock felt a spark of déjà vu ignite in his mind at hearing those words again. There was no mistaking it. He grasped at the opportunity to direct the conversation topic.

‘You were rather close to Moriarty weren’t you?’

This time Mary blinked twice with perplexed shock.

‘Interesting. Even though he was the reason your father was having to live a life in the shadows. You must have spent so much time with him growing up, that you could not help but grow fond of his madness.’

‘He was insane,’ she smirked slightly, ‘but a genius.’

‘The best of us are.’ Sherlock remarked wryly.

‘Why do you think I latched myself onto John?’ She provoked him now with her emotions worked up to the extent that she purely meant to offend. ‘I knew what you were getting up to with the rest of Moriarty’s network. I find in such situations, the best thing to do is to lie low with a good aim. I had the target which would injure you most, wrapped around my little finger.’

He felt the disgust in him rising. The amount which John had been through and done for her. All that time she had played the perfect wife, pretended to be exactly what he needed. All that she could have been fortunate enough to have with him. To use him, of all people, as nothing but the strings to a puppet.

‘I hope you realise just how big of a fucking mistake you have made.’

She snorted with a huff of laughter, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard you swear before Sherlock. I wonder what I’ve said that could have possibly brought that on.’

Her phone rang. It sent a wave of panic over Sherlock in an instant, knowing it could only bring the very news he absolutely refused to hear. John. He forced his hands against the wires tying them together. He pushed and twisted them until he could feel cuts deepening on his palms, the cold wire meeting the warmth of his blood. It didn’t matter, he would not stop. Every step she took towards the phone increased his determination.

‘Dad? Where the fu-’ She began but was cut off by the voice on the other end of the phone. Sherlock felt a wire loosen minimally around one of his hands. He skilfully worked with it as best as he could whilst she was distracted. It gave way. Every movement he made was as discreet as the most silent of whispers. He slowly raised himself onto one of his feet.

‘Don’t.’ Mary spun around, her entire being had suddenly become alert and her face was thunder signalling a storm. She waved the gun at Sherlock as if to remind him of its presence, finger on the trigger. ‘Turn around and go over there.’

She indicated to the doorway of the bathroom to his left. The furthest place from the exit of the room. Sherlock saw his fate become all too clear to him. He knew he was afraid, though he didn’t care to admit it. His voice shook as he put his only thought into a question.

‘John?’

‘He’s going to be my next problem. Apparently we all underestimated the dear Doctor.’ Her stress grew with every word she spat out. ‘He somehow managed to knock out my dad who has only just regained consciousness. Didn’t stop to take the time to call the police on him though, so I’m assuming he’s in a rush to get over here for you.’

Sherlock smiled the most natural smile he had ever felt come to him. It carried every inch of pure relief, pride, admiration and love. It was a feeling he let wash over him and flood every other fear which may have been in his mind. John was the most extraordinary person he had ever had the privilege of knowing and whatever else happened to himself now was insignificant. John was alive.

‘I don’t have time for this.’ Mary stated coldly. ‘Sorry Sherlock, it’s goodbye for now.’

And she pulled the trigger.


	12. Chapter 12

John forced his frame of mind to be that of his military self as he stormed through the corridors of Langham hotel. Legs sprinting forward, carrying the head which focused entirely on the task awaiting him. He held his pistol in his right hand, ready for use yet discreet enough, that nobody in the hotel would see it and raise an immediate alarm. He found the room number he was looking for and poised himself against the door. He could hear voices from within. A woman’s, which by now he concluded to be Mary, and another. It was the other which made him catch his breath. It was the voice he had heard repeatedly in his thoughts with every punch he had thrown at his attacker and every step he had taken to get here. The voice he’d feared he might never hear again. Sherlock, finally.

Without another second’s hesitation he knocked the door open with his weapon ready in front of him. In a matter of moments he witnessed his vilest nightmare materialise into reality. Mary had pulled a trigger directed at Sherlock. John’s eyes split between the sight of Sherlock falling forward like a broken toy and Mary turning her head at the sound of his entrance. His mind trembled but his finger did not, as he sent his own bullet soaring in her direction. It was a clean shot to the heart which had her falling instantly.

John did not look at her face as she fell. Instead he sprung past her across the room and tumbled to the floor at Sherlock’s side.

‘Sherlock, oh God… no.’ the words played on his lips, uncertain as to whether he was actually vocalising them. He could only feel every inch of him shaking with dread as he took in the sight of blood spouting profusely from Sherlock’s back. He knew the bullet would be lodged close to his heart, yet hung onto the possibility that it may have been defended by a rib. He placed both of his hands over the entrance wound and applied pressure with every cell in his body. He felt the blood’s warmth seep through his fingers as it lapped around his hands.

A gasp from the other side of the room made him look up in a flash. A cleaning lady was standing in the doorway with a mop in her hand and a horrified appearance on her face.

‘Call an ambulance, now!’ John knew his voice was audible this time as he bellowed the instruction out. She dropped the mop and stepped back slightly. ‘NOW!’

The second time his instruction broke through her shock as he watched her fumble in her pockets before yanking out a mobile and dialling the number. He instantly returned his attention to Sherlock.

‘Sherlock can you hear me? Please, God, say something!’

An incoherent murmur escaped Sherlock’s lips as John tried to put him into a proper position whilst simultaneously not moving him too much. He knew there was a pulse but with every second that past it was slipping away. Sherlock was slipping away from him. Grabbing the shirt which was covering Sherlock’s back, he tore it with all his strength down the middle, giving him a clear sight to the wound. Scrunching the torn material up so that it would be thick, he held it like a plug against the leaking hole in his body.

‘Sherlock stay with me, ok. Help is on its way. You just need to do what you do best and stay the fuck awake!’

He allowed his eyes to flick to Sherlock’s face but they never reached it. Instead they dithered with horror at the closer take of his back. Lines of mutilated skin where the flesh had been slit encountered his view. He blinked rapidly hoping each time that the sight would disappear, wanting it to be a fault of his eyes, rather than Sherlock’s skin.

‘Sher…’ His urge was to reach out and touch the devastation which he saw before him. As if in doing so he could reassure not only himself but also Sherlock, that it wasn’t real. Yet, there it was. He breathed out the thought which accompanied his consternation, ‘How?’

His hands however, remained over the bullet entrance, pressing the shirt material down as it gradually dyed itself into a new crimson red colour. His pressure never faltering as he despairingly willed it to stop.

‘Sherlock, you are not giving up on me! You never have before, and you won’t this time either! Please…’ He kept his voice going, longing for it to be enough to keep Sherlock in the now.

‘I am not letting you get away with this that easily. You are going to explain to me what the hell happened to your back and why the fuck I don’t know about it. And this bullet wound is going to become nothing but another scar which I can spend the rest of our lives chiding you for!’

Sherlock clung onto every note he could hear John emit through the gradual dimming of his mental light. It pulled on every string in him to stay conscious. If experience had taught him anything, dying on John Watson was not an option. He wasn’t going anywhere.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how much of this I've written already. I really hope it's enjoyable and not complete rubbish... thanks for reading!

‘Why is it taking so long? What’s going on?’ John hurtled his worries at Mycroft as soon as he saw him enter the waiting area of the Royal London hospital. ‘I know about bullet wounds and an operation of this length means something went wrong.’

‘I don’t doubt that you do know about them.’ Mycroft remarked as he sat himself next to John. He leant forward on his umbrella and took in a deep breath. ‘They have successful removed the bullet.’

John let an uncertain smile appear on his face as he asked, ‘That’s good then?’

‘Unfortunately it’s not that simple. There was minor internal haemorrhage.’ He spoke each word slowly in an attempt to state it as clearly as possible, for himself as well as John. ‘Which was the most significant part of the operation. The problem being that to perform this operation successfully the right amount of anaesthetic is required.’

‘Are you telling me that you managed to get an idiot of a surgeon who managed to give him the wrong dosage and caused his circulation to collapse?’

‘No… not exactly. The correct dosage was given and the operation completed successfully,’ He cleared his throat slightly to prepare for what he had next to tell. ‘But Sherlock’s pervious interactions with drugs means that he has unpredictable reactions to them. That is why it is taking longer. The anaesthetic has affected his circulation and perhaps put him back in danger.’

John’s anger at the world and every single part of it which was against Sherlock in this moment built up within him. ‘Why? Why does there always have to be something!’

His rant was interrupted by the appearance of Lestrade approaching from the other end of the corridor. His stride was quick and he reached them within seconds, ‘How is he?’

‘We’re still waiting.’ Mycroft answered passively, before turning his head to John. ‘I called him over here so he could take you back to Baker stre-’

‘No bloody way.’ John cut him of resolutely. ‘If you think that I am even going to leave this chair, then you aren’t nearly half as clever as you think you are.’

Mycroft gave a rare twitch of a smile in response. Lestrade was the one to defend his reasoning as he spoke. ‘Look John, all we’re saying is you can pop to Baker Street, clean up a bit, maybe even get a bit of a rest and be back here before anything changes.’

John shook his head in determination as he glanced down at himself. There were stains of Sherlock’s blood still covering him in random places, from his hands, to his shirt and cardigan. He was exhausted, physically and mentally. His eye lids felt as if they were balancing lead and his muscles sulked with fatigue. But that did not make a difference.

‘I want to be here. I have to know if something happens.’

‘Yes but as we have established by now you won’t be able to find out or see him first anyway,’ Mycroft reminded him potently, ‘relatives only until he is stable – hospital rules.’

‘Yes but that is the most fucking stupid rule I have ever heard of, who the hell came up with that? What makes you any more significant than me to Sherlock right now?!’

‘Let’s just calm down alright. No one is saying that, those are just the rules.’ Lestrade sat himself on the other side of John and placed a hand on his shoulder, he kept his voice low as he spoke. ‘We are saying however, that you’ve been through a hell of a lot John and you need, at least a momentary break. Of course I’m not going to take you in for questioning over Mary and what exactly happened for now. I have however, arranged for your therapy sessions to continue free of cha-’

‘I don’t need to see a therapist,’ John felt exasperated and he tried to make his point clear by following each word with his hands in a defensive motion. ‘I just need to see Sherlock.’

‘Yes and wouldn’t he be thrilled that the first thing he sees is you covered in his blood.’ Mycroft commented bluntly.

John swallowed doubtfully as he returned his eyes to Mycroft.

‘Am I right in assuming that were the situation reversed, you would want Sherlock to do the same?’ He continued, seeing his words were having an effect. ‘I will of course call you should there be any change in his condition.’

John dug his hands through his hair, reluctant to believe that he was letting himself be convinced. It seemed unthinkable for him to go anywhere right now, yet logic made it somehow clear that he ought to.

‘If he so much as flinches, I want to know about it.’

\---

The car journey was spent in silence as John mentally willed Lestrade to go faster. When they finally arrived he hurriedly got out, murmuring an indication of ‘Thanks, see you,’ before sprinting up the steps to the door. His hands shook in agitation as he tried to fit his key into the lock and when it eventually opened, he was in and up the stairs in a flash. A shower was all he intended. To quickly wash off the reminders of his day and wake him up enough to keep his eyes open.

After having grabbed a clean outfit and throwing it in the bathroom for a quick change. He tugged the blood stained clothing off of his body, and discarded it in a pile on the floor. Within seconds he was under the steaming stream of hot water pouring down on him. He watched as it took up the colour of the blood it washed over as it went. Sherlock’s blood. He fought back the stinging in his eyes at the thought and instead began to scrub harder in an attempt to be rid of it quicker. His mental focus was broken by the ringing of his mobile from the other side of the bathroom. He tore the shower door open and flooded the bathroom as he rushed to answer it.

‘Mycroft! What’s going on? He’s not ok is he? I knew I shouldn’t have left.’

‘He has made it.’ Mycroft stopped John before he could go any further. ‘They just informed me. His circulation is back to normal. He is still unconscious now but should be awake by the time you get here and then I’m sure you ought to be able to see him soon.’

John lowered the phone a little as he felt the immediate alleviation of his greatest fears. His entire mentality felt like a clock which was now slowly unwinding. An effortless grin overcame him, that bastard really is above death by now. ‘That’s fantastic. I’ll be there as s-’

‘Sorry John I have to hang up, the doctor wants a word. Don’t feel the need to rush yourself.’

John couldn’t get another word out before the line cut off on the other end. Bloody Mycroft.

He hastily returned to the shower, feeling a different person to when he had left it. He’d been determined to be fast, but the blood had dried onto his hand’s skin to the extent that it took far too long to wash off. By the time he was finished he was cursing himself as he struggled to get his clothes on without having dried properly.

He hurried into the living room in search of his keys but halted midway at the sudden sight which confronted him.

‘Sherlock!’ He stood baffled in the middle of the room as his eyes confirmed with certainty that his mind was not deceiving him.

‘John.’ Sherlock was sat in his chair, looking more dishevelled than John had ever seen him. He was in a bizarre, pyjama looking, hospital outfit and his hair stuck up in all places. His chest was heaving slightly, yet his whole countenance was one of delight.

‘You shouldn’t be here, your operation ended less than an hour ago. How long have you even been awake?’

‘Relax. It’s fine. I woke up not too long ago and decided I’d rather be here than there.’

‘Does Mycroft know?’

‘I assume he does by now. I only spoke to him momentarily when I awoke,’ He hesitated as he avoided eye contact before continuing. ‘I did not fail to show him my disappointment, I hoped I would be seeing you and then he mentioned something about hospital rules, so I thought I’d just come here where there are none. No doubt he’ll have words to say along the lines of-’

John realised he could not care less in that moment what Mycroft had to say. He felt every doubt or wonder cease in his mind as he took in the joy of seeing Sherlock alive and acting his annoyingly flawless self once again. He loved him. Before he knew it, he had crossed the space between them in seconds, and placed his own lips onto his. At first he was gentle for fear of a possible refusal. Yet as he let every inch of his feelings flow into it, he felt Sherlock’s astonishment relax into desire. A sensitivity overcame him like nothing he had experienced before. Every contact, every flavour, of Sherlock sent a thrill through his very being. John pulled Sherlock closer as he placed his hand on the back of his head, running his fingers through the soft depths of his distinct curls. He smiled into their kiss as he realised how long he’d been longing to do just that. He could sense Sherlock’s pleasure too as he let out a low sigh and felt his hand grasping the back of his shirt - ever trying to close the distance between them.

Reluctantly, Sherlock let go a few seconds later. He was breathing heavily, his chest still weak from the operation. His striking eyes kept John in their focus as he tried to string some words together.

‘John…’

‘Yes Sherlock?’

‘I think, now would be a good time to inform you that,’ he rasped. ‘I meant to tell you before I got on the plane that time but I didn’t think you’d want… What I’m trying to say is. Though I’ve said that I love my work first in the past. You’ve proven to become more important to me than that ever will and without you it’s really not that great anyway…. because I’m fairly certain that, I do in fact, love you.’

John grinned as he thought of both of their stupidity in the past. It was so simple, ‘I love you too Sherlock. I’m fairly certain I always have, it has just taken me far too long to see it.’

John was convinced he would never forget Sherlock’s expression after he had spoken. It was such a happy yet somehow, bashful one. As if he couldn't quite believe that someone was saying those words to him. It was a look John would never have believed he could be the cause of. Especially not on the most wonderfully unique, intelligent, beautiful and caring face he had ever had the good fortune of knowing.

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

John placed the milk bottle back into the fridge door, taking his bowl of cereal and newspaper with him in the process. He made no attempt to move around Sherlock, who was focused on something the other side of his microscope’s lens, and instead allowed his arm to brush gently against his back as he passed. He noticed a smile form on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as he did so and couldn’t help but do the same in return. He was sure that he had never been as happy in life as he was in this moment. As he was in every moment, since that day.

Making himself comfortable in his chair, he flipped open the newspaper and began to skim over the various articles it had to offer. After a while he began to notice a gentle humming sound come from the kitchen. He turned his head to find it was Sherlock quietly singing a tune he did not know. John found himself drawn to the sound like no other music he’d heard before, it was so reassuring. It felt like the sound of Baker Street, where everything he loved was in one place.

‘I didn’t know you could sing.’ John pointed out once the tune had ended.

Sherlock was silent. He’d been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not actually intended to sing out loud. He hadn’t actually noticed he was singing. He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or to simply brush it off.

John on the other was realising what a stupid comment he had made. Of course Sherlock could sing. Firstly, because there was barely anything that he could not do and secondly, anyone who has such an enticing baritone voice when he speaks must be able to sing well. He took Sherlock’s lack of a reply as confirmation of his stupidity.

‘Can you sing anything I might know?’

Sherlock placed aside the slide he had been analysing and put another under the microscope.

‘I doubt it. I’m not really familiar with anything mainstream.’

John sighed. Perhaps he would have to accept that in certain areas, this relationship was not going to fit the conventional forms of romantic. That was fine though, he thought, just fine.

Suddenly he picked up a few uneasy words stringed into a melody coming from Sherlock.

‘It’s, a little bit, funny… this feeling inside…’

He didn’t turn around for fear of stopping it, instead he strained his ears to listen.

‘I’m not one of those, who can, easily hide…’

John grinned from ear to ear, he couldn’t believe it. ‘Elton John?’

‘Mum likes it… It’s all I could think of. Why? Not good?’ He looked up from his microscope, looking for a sign as to whether he should carry on.

‘No, no,’ John turned to face him again, his eyes beaming with pleasure. ‘Very good.’

He watched with glee as Sherlock’s diffident response was to return his gaze to the microscope, a slight blush touching his cheeks as he continued the song. He could not believe that this same person was the little shit who acted so arrogantly superior around everyone else. John couldn’t deny that he loved it.

Sherlock was interrupted on the second verse by a loud knock from the door below, followed by hurried footsteps coming up the stairs which emerged into their flat in the form of Lestrade.

‘Morning Greg, what is it?’ John asked in a somewhat perplexed manner as he rose from his chair to greet him.

Sherlock maintained his gaze on what was in front of him as he spoke before Lestrade could, ‘Let me guess, you can’t put it off any longer. We have to give an account as to what happened with Mary.’

‘Oh…’ John could not disguise his annoyance at having to revisit that chapter of his life.

‘Yeah I’m afraid that’s it. I can do it informally as a favour but,’ He flicked his eyes between Sherlock and John, unsure as to whom he should be talking to. ‘Next week is the trial of that Captain Ashworth guy we managed to arrest. We’ll be needing your side of the story for it.’

‘You better take a seat then.’ John invited him to sit in his chair, whilst he grabbed one from the table for himself. ‘Sherlock?’

The detective let out a slight huff of frustration but rose to join them all the same, throwing himself into the comforts of his own leather chair.

‘What is there to know?’ He asked impatiently. ‘Mary left John to run away with her dad, who had been in hiding, for some stupid treasure. I stopped her before she could, unfortunately realising that she’d shoot me in the process and John interrupted the situation, saving my life as well as his own, by shooting her.’

‘Alright, a little slower if you don’t mind.’ Lestrade remarked, annoyed as he hurried to get everything down in his notebook. ‘Now I know you realised she left by herself when you found that CCTV footage. But if that’s the case, what was with the sedative you found on the carpet?’

‘Mary had administered it to John by dissolving it in a glass of water that evening. Which is why he didn’t notice her leave later that night.’ He explained, ‘unluckily for her he wasn’t capable of carrying it without spilling some, which is why we found traces on the carpet.’

John rolled his eyes slightly at the unnecessary comment on his tardiness at the time. He tried to maintain a light hearted expression to suppress the pain which arose in remembering how he had been deceived. That he had not known in the least, what type of person he was making his wife. At his own foolishness, not only in being taken in by Mary but also in his denial of what Sherlock had really meant to him. He felt as if his whole marriage had been an escape route for him. He was grateful, at least, that it had eventually been exposed as a dead end. Yet he knew that if he had been truly honest with himself, and more cautious of his actions, a lot of emotional turmoil could have been prevented. The conversation dragged on without him, and he was brought back to it by the concerned look of Lestrade as he phrased a question in his direction.

‘You alright John?’

‘Hmm, yeah, I’m fine Greg.’ He tried to maintain a steady voice, unsure as to how much he ought to be giving away. ‘Better than fine actually.’

Lestrade gave a questioning look but said no more as he returned his attention to Sherlock. ‘How did you know about the hotel and the date?’

‘Easy. Once I’d found out Captain Ashworth had a daughter, and the mother’s (who had died in childbirth) name. Using the initials on the ship, I gave Mary’s real name to Mycroft and he ran it through the system here. Fortunately he is able to be very thorough in his position, and found the booking under that name at the Langham hotel on that date.’ His eyes flicked to John as he continued, ‘That’s what I found out when he called that night. Being that it was the same date, he recommended I use the information instantly.’

John reacted with a frustrated demeanour, he wasn’t going to pretend that he had accepted the way Sherlock had acted that night. To just leave without a word and assume he could handle it himself. The whole affair could have ended very differently, to the extent that Sherlock might not have been sitting here today. That was not something he could let go so easily.

‘Yes, well…’ Sherlock picked up John’s anger immediately and blundered as he tried to change the subject. ‘Anything else?’

Lestrade caught on to the tension in the air, unclear as what exactly had caused it. He looked to Sherlock, then over to John, and then back to Sherlock again.

‘Uhm, no actually that should be enough. I’ll call you if anything else comes up.’ He stood up and began making his way towards the door.

‘Good,’ John followed him. ‘Also remember no cases for Sherlock for at least another month. He can’t be doing anything strenuous until we’re certain the injury and his circulation, have healed completely.’

‘Right.’ Lestrade stopped a moment before leaving. ‘Everything ok between you two?’

The response he got was not what he had expected. Sherlock, bursting out with laughter from the other side of the room. John found himself having to exercise self control to avoid doing the same and lowered his face, brushing over it with his hand in an attempt to do so.

‘Yeah, no, everything is fine. Completely fine.’ He managed to piece an answer together through the urge building in him to give way to Sherlock’s infectious laughter.

Lestrade stared at them both, puzzled as to what joke he had missed.

‘I’ll explain another time, sorry Greg, he’s just being typical Sherlock right now.’ John felt an explanation was justified and didn’t actually see a problem in clarifying the situation in the moment. Only, he wasn’t sure how open Sherlock wanted to be and was unwilling to say more than he would be happy with.

‘That,’ Lestrade pointed to Sherlock whose laughter was slowly beginning to cease. ‘Is not typical Sherlock.’

Sherlock ignored him, returning to the kitchen where his experiment still lay strewn across the table. His face still maintained a suggestive grin which he knew was keeping Lestrade befuddled as he watched.

‘Ok, I can see I’m not going to get to the bottom of this today.’ He pulled his coat on as he headed out, ‘But this – whatever it is – I want an answer to next time we meet. See you.’

John shut the door behind him and spun around to confront Sherlock. Unknowingly to him however, the detective was ahead of him and had moved closer, so that they were now directly facing each other.

‘Sherlock, that was not fair. You can’t just go teasing him like that.’

Fortunately Sherlock knew what the best method was to render John incapable of scolding him anymore. He placed one of his hands on John’s neck and raised his head with it. He could feel the pulse beneath his fingers begin to race and beamed internally, knowing he was the catalyst. Gently he placed a brief kiss onto John’s lips, taking in the mesmerised dark eyes which observed his own as he drew back to speak.

‘Forgive me?’ He breathed, his deep voice echoing in John’s ears.

Damn it, John thought as he hesitated not a second more. He dug his hand into Sherlock’s hair and pulled him in for a deeper kiss. Every sense in his body became attuned with Sherlock’s. He knew that he was now the one in control, experience gave him the upper hand. He relished in being able to feel Sherlock’s pleasure in response to his own. In every contact he made with his tongue he could feel his partner’s fascination and eagerness grow. John ran his fingers keenly through the hair they rested on, something he had become prone to doing for his own, as well as Sherlock’s, benefit. Just as he heard a gentle moan from the back of Sherlock’s throat, he suddenly realised what he had meant to ask before he had been… distracted.

He drew back quickly, only to have his mind blank momentarily all over again from the sight of a breathless and flushed Sherlock looking back at him.

‘I uhm,’ he tried to maintain his concentration as he took in the sight which sent a flame of want through him. ‘I meant to ask, two things actually.’

‘Now, really?’ Sherlock was a little shaken, impatient with that which had interrupted something he’d hoped could have turned into more.

‘Yeah. It’s important actually. Firstly, who do we tell about this – us? Do we even bother telling anybody?’

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, ‘I reckon they’ll figure it out soon enough. It’s not like most of our acquaintances didn’t believe it was already like this before anyway.’

‘Fair enough.’ John accepted his reasoning readily, preparing himself for the next question.

‘Good, can we get back to -’

‘No Sherlock, I need to know,’ He locked him in under his gaze as he spoke. ‘I haven’t mentioned this before, with so much going on and all but, when you were shot. I saw your back. All those scars… what the hell happened to you? Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uni work is beginning to kick in a lot more now but I will get the next chapter done as soon as possible!   
> I hope you are finding it an enjoyable read ^^


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock bit his lip hesitantly as he let his hand fall from John’s shoulder and stepped back a little. ‘You saw that did you? Of course you did. Well I can assure you there’s practically nothing to it.’

‘It didn’t look like nothing.’

‘Oh it’s looks far worse than it is John. Just a bit of bruising, hardly avoidable when dealing with people such as Moriarty’s web.’ He composed himself in an indifferent manner and turned away as he spoke, aiming for the kitchen where his experiment still lay as a tempting diversion.

‘Stop it Sherlock. I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not working.’ He kept his voice calm, but concerned. ‘Those scars came from some form of cuts. Deep cuts... what possible situation could you have been in where you could let something like that happen to you?’

Sherlock fiddled with some slides, pretending to be occupied with his experiment, yet in reality trying to find anything to avoid having to confront the subject with John.

‘It was just a bit of work in Serbia. Honestly though, I was perfectly capable of handling it – managed to convince one of my torturers that his wife was cheating on him and he left. How fickle humans can be.’

John’s inhaled sharply at the word. ‘Torturers? What the bloody hell do you mean by that Sherlock?’

He watched as Sherlock withdrew his eye from his microscope momentarily, his face flickering with a memory which he fought to disguise. His face was passive again in an instant, but John had seen it.

‘Well, torturer was perhaps the wrong choice of word. I meant, one of the people who were keeping me captive.’

‘No you didn’t. You, of all people, are perfectly capable of using the right vocabulary for that which you’re trying to say the first time round.’

Sherlock swallowed cautiously. He grabbed a clean slide, and with a pipette began preparing it with a drop of water. ‘John, please, can we just leave it. There is nothing else to say.’

John’s emotions got the better of him as he reached over and yanked the equipment from Sherlock’s hand, sending it flying across the kitchen until it fell with a clattering sound to the floor.

‘There is plenty to say. I haven’t even started yet.’

Sherlock wanted to tell John he was overreacting, to role his eyes and get up to the fetch the equipment in a huff. But he couldn’t. Instead he just stared at him, astounded and afraid of what was to come.

‘I don’t want pity John. It doesn’t alter the past, it only brings it up again.’

‘That might be Sherlock. But we have to be able to trust each other and that means you being able to tell me something like this without getting uncomfortable. You’ve clearly been through, a lot of pain. How can you expect me to ignore that? If our positions were reversed, would you just drop it?’

Sherlock’s thoughts unwillingly flicked to the image of John in the position he had been in. Cold chains tightly embracing his wrists as they hung from each wall, sweat dripping from the unbearable heat and musty air surrounding him. His stomach churning with sickness from starvation and his mouth rough as sandpaper, craving the silky feeling of fresh water gliding down his throat. The haunting knowledge that each beating would be followed by another one. Each whip slicing through his flesh, the burning sensation coursing through his sensory receptors to his brain. The pain igniting in him repeatedly, an endless curse.

‘No. John, don’t.’ He blurted out, throwing the image out of his brain, never to be found again in any part of his mind palace. ‘You will never be put in that position. I would never let that happen.’

John could hear the terror in Sherlock’s voice. It shook with determination.

‘Why were you in that position then Sherlock? How could you let anyone hurt you like that? Do you have no self-worth? And why the fuck, was _I_ not able to prevent it?!’ John was shouting now, his feelings building to the extent that he could feel a stinging in his eyes.

‘For God’s sake John, I was there for _you_!’ Sherlock spun around so that he was completely facing him. His face dropping the façade he had been trying to maintain. In its place were cheeks enflamed with surfacing emotion, contrasting to the delicate paleness of his usual tone. Wide eyes, the green sprinkled within the blue, seeming to pierce through to John’s very soul and wavering lips which still clung onto the words they had just spoken. He realised how his sudden outburst was overwhelming John, yet he could not - and would not - reign himself back in.

‘I had to be there, I had to destroy that blasted network and Serbia was the final piece! Or at least I had thought it was.’ He bit back his frustration at the remembrance of Mary, but it didn’t help. His temper increased the more he spoke.

‘Don’t you see? Of course you couldn’t prevent it, I was the one doing the preventing in being there! You would have been the first target John, as soon as anybody found out I was still alive. Moriarty made that very clear with the snipers from the roof. I had no choice! Of course it hurt, I know it’s questionable to many but yes I am human and I feel pain. But that didn’t matter.’

John flinched at his words, there were so many thoughts and questions stirring within him that he felt lost. Suddenly everything so much more complicated than it had been. The reasons for Sherlock jumping from that roof, why he had spent so long leaving John to believe he was truly dead. Guilt layered itself within him as he realised how little he had done Sherlock justice. He’d thought Sherlock had done it because of Moriarty. To destroy him completely and to be able to say he had entirely finished his nemesis. But John now saw that was only one side of the coin and the other side, was him.

A hand on his shoulder anchored him back into the present, causing him to look up at the face to whom it belonged. Sherlock was silent now, observing John with uneasiness, fearful as to whether he had said too much.

‘I’m so sorry Sherlock.’ John almost whispered the words as he felt himself on the brink of tears. He realised how little he was actually different from Sherlock. He didn’t know how to communicate the emotions he was feeling, afraid of seeming foolish or false. Yet he felt an immediate reassurance return to him at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

‘You don’t need to be. It worked didn’t it? We’re both here now. For that I would do it all over again.’ He felt a touch of shyness creep into his voice as he continued, ‘Besides, it’s not like you wouldn’t have done the same for me is it?...’

John answered by throwing his hands around Sherlock, pulling him into what should have been an awkward hug. But it wasn’t, it felt perfect. He heard Sherlock’s heart beat through his cotton shirt and clung onto the sound, knowing that he would go through every form of torture if it meant that heart would never stop. He raised his head to Sherlock’s ear, inhaling the distinct yet subtle, smell of his hair. He recalled how that very same smell had brought him such comfort when he had first awoken under Sherlock’s duvet on the couch. Its origin no longer surprised him. He knew exactly why it had drawn him in.

‘Thank you. For everything, Sherlock. Thank you.’

 

 


End file.
